Me and George, A couple of Cool Hand Lukes

(This Is Karl Marx. Guess who likes Karl Marx? Smart people. Guess who doesn't? Baby-eaters)

G is a pretty neat guy. We got to talking while we disassembled Rich Dude's Pristine Home Exercise equipment. The Marxist Critic in me couldn't help but notice the class antagonism in George's voice as he joked about Rich Dude's palatial digs (4, 500 square feet). No one was around since Rich Dude had already moved to a new house (11,000 square feet), and G was acting overly conscientious about not tracking in any dirt or sheep crap on the posh marble foyer. Then he made a joke about the asking permission to use the bathroom, even though the place was empty.

(Steely Dan is underrated by hipsters and overrated by coke heads)

Anyway, G. He's 57. Grew up in Wheat's Ridge, Colorado, not far from Lafayette, in a blue collar neighborhood. In college he played bass guitar for extra pocket money. His group did lots of covers, 70s stuff like Steely Dan, the Doobie Brothers. I think hearing Neil Young play on my laptop scored a few kudos with G, which is important. He knows I'm not farm material yet. He knows I'm soft around the edges after years of city living, of years of paying people to do my laundry and fix my bicycle. Lately he's been teasing me about the book I'm trying to not not write. When other farmers ask who the guy with him is, G will crack on me. "That's the guy staying in the basement. Says he's writing a book, but we never see it."

(You wouldn't know it by his pinstripes, but Hank here has some hefty stones on him)

The thing about G is that he's tough. He doesn't need Rehab. G survived cancer of the lymph nodes. Said the radiation burned his throat and mouth. Now he doesn't like candy bars as much. Married once, then divorced, G has no biological kids that he knows of. He's got a serious girlfriend he met online a year ago, K, and her adorable 6 year-old daughter, Olivia. It's pretty obvious Olivia is adopted. Polite as hell. She handled the "very nice to meet you" business really quite professionally. George doesn't say much, but he lights up when he's on the phone with K. Calls her "Good lookin', " like Hank Williams.

(Did you ever notice high-end luxury automobiles tend to have hood ornaments? Tacky)

G and K want to settle down, buy some land, and build a house. You know what construction material he plans to use for the house? Straw. Bales of straw. I know this because G told me a story about the time a bale of hay fell off the Ford a mile from the house. I asked him how he handled it. He said he had to get the tractor. Bales of hay weigh 800 pounds. I said, "You could build a house with that!" He said, "I know." G said the "R" factor (wind resistance) of straw is a million times better than that pink fiberglass insulation shit you see in most homes. Plus they want to build their straw home into the side of hill to save more energy. I speculated on the ease of heating and cooling such an earthen home. Geore said, "I suspect you could warm it with a candle and cool with an ice cube." That there is some fine sustainable living.

Who's Off the Grid now?

Until then,

The Traveling Wombury